On a hike into Death Canyon, Rachel and I climb over the Phelps Lake moraine and down to the shore choked with prehistoric-looking false-hellebore—head-high poisonous plants with pleated leaves as long as my forearm. . . Boots tramping in rhythm in the dirt, we share stories about families, long-ago hurts and joys, lost loves. We wince in pain, shriek in laughter. Dual energies of common passions and sisterly empathy arc between us.